


Danger Night

by Calico



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after 2x03: The Reichenbach Fall.</p><p>In which Calico fixes it, all of it, unrepentantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danger Night

It wouldn't have occurred to John to ask for help, because he was going to be fine, wounded but fine, his life in insomniac pieces but he _had_ survived worse (had he?)—and then he looked down at his phone and saw a message, waiting.

 _Just checking in. How are you holding up? My door's always open. – L_

John was replying before he really thought about it: _Thanks. Actually that would be good if you don’t mind._

 _Tonight? The footie's on. Or something else if you'd prefer._

For some reason he hadn't expected to hear back straight away, and he absolutely hadn't prepared for the relief flooding over him: another evening he could put off facing 221B.

 _Footie's fine. Or I wouldn't say no to something with car chases & explosions._

 _Got it. Come over whenever._ And the address.

.

* * *

.

Lestrade was in jeans when he answered the door, and a blue jersey sweater, with damp hair and an alert look in his eyes. _Studiously casual_ , John heard, in Sherlock's voice. The pang that went though him, as he remembered, made him miss his step.

"Hi," Lestrade said, hands going out to catch him. "Whoa, are you—“

"Fine," John said. Then he laughed, hollow. "I mean – horrible. But."

"Sure," Lestrade said, nodding too much. "Come in."

John followed him in, realising as he did so that he'd forgotten to bring anything. He'd been going to pick up a bottle of red, a nod towards being a normal guest, but at some point he'd forgotten again. A forgivable lapse, under the circumstances; he hadn’t exactly been sleeping. But still.

Lestrade’s sitting room had a dimmer switch; he brought it up a bit, not much.

"So I thought one of these might fit the bill," Lestrade said, passing him a fat box set of Bond DVDs. "Want to join me in a whisky?"

"Oh, um, perfect. Thanks," John said. He stared at the side of the box, the words somehow familiar and meaningless at the same time.

Lestrade went and came back. Pressed a hefty glass into his hand, then poured him three fingers of Talisker.

"Thanks," John said again, holding it tight. For a moment, he could see in crisp detail the glass slipping from his hand onto the coffee table in a great smash of whisky and broken glass.

"Did you pick one?"

John realised the box set was still in his other hand. "No," he said. He cleared his throat, and made a supreme effort to sound normal. "Why don't you pick? Who's your favourite Bond?"

"If it's up to me, _Goldeneye_ every time," Lestrade said, and John gave the box to him, that odd flood of relief again.

"Sounds good."

Lestrade waved for him to sit on the sofa, and busied himself with the DVD player. "I mean, I like Daniel Craig," he said, coming back to sit next to John, "but his stuff's a bit harsh. Not what I'm looking for, if I'm watching this sort of thing in the first place, y'know?"

John nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the telly. It was large, sleek, flat; a far cry from the box of bolts and white noise they—he—that was in Baker Street.

An ache took up in John’s throat, brightening until he felt his breath catch. He took a sip of whisky; the burn was soothing, filling his mouth. Another sip and he managed to swallow. The ache faded. Okay.

He became aware that Lestrade was looking at him. Dark eyes watchful, the faintest hint of a frown. Not saying anything, just—checking up.

John saw himself from outside himself, and winced. "I'm fine," he said. "Look, can we just." He waved his hand at the TV. "Please."

"Sure," Lestrade said, and pressed Play.

John took another sip of whisky, larger this time, holding it in his mouth as Bond proved his mettle in a daring pre-credits stunts-reel. The whisky had a good, strong, complex taste, occupying all of his attention for a few wonderful seconds. Smoky and searing, it filled the bits of his brain that had been dark and numb for the past five days.

Then he swallowed and, like a tide overwhelming a flood barrier, his mind filled with one thought: _He's not coming back. ___

The dated, semi-pornographic, hilariously anti-Soviet credits rolled.

John took another mouthful of whisky, trying to blot out all thoughts. It worked for a couple of seconds, blazing beautifully on the way down.

He glanced sideways, to check that Lestrade wasn’t watching him, pitying him—and blinked. Lestrade wasn’t watching him at all. He was watching the television, but he looked like a giant statue: positioned miles away, in a gigantically-oversized miles-away version of his sitting room; the perspective looked right but something else seemed unfeasibly wrong.

John squeezed his eyes shut, counted to ten. _Derealisation_ , he thought, the word floating back from his psych rotation as a House Officer. _Alienation from environment; dissociative disorder. Organic causes: epilepsy, migraine, vestibular neuronitis. Occurs occasionally in healthy people when very tired._

Sleep deprivation, the beginnings of a psychiatric disorder, or— _I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket._

He downed the rest of the whisky.

“Thanks,” he said, holding the glass out in Lestrade’s direction, his eyes still closed. He couldn’t bear to see how Lestrade would be looking at him _now_.

He expected to be relieved of it; instead he heard the sleek noise of the cork and then felt the glass grow heavier as Lestrade wordlessly refilled it.

John opened his eyes to give him a sceptical look. Lestrade had already turned back to the film.

John lifted the glass, then stopped, resting the rim on his lower lip. The Talisker fumes teased at the inside of his nose, prickling, promising. “I—I don’t know about this,” he said.

“She’s squeezing him to death with her thighs,” Lestrade said, and despite himself John exhaled a laugh. His glass misted up.

“No, I got that,” he said, swirling the whisky to clear the mist. In the low light, the gentle golden whirlpool was pleasant to look at. He told it, as dryly as he could manage: “I am aware of the plot.”

“What then?”

“Well, I’m _also_ aware that in about twenty minutes, I'm going to be drunk.” He darted a look in Lestrade’s direction.

Lestrade appeared unconcerned. “You are?”

“Haven't eaten," John explained. _Since breakfast. At 4am._

“Huh,” Lestrade said, and paused the film. The sudden hush made John cringe inside. “Do you want some food? By which I mean toast, I'm afraid. Unless you want takeaway, but that’ll be forty minutes, minimum."

"Don't really want anything," John said. Even in the quiet room, his voice sounded small. “Well,” he added, considering. He cradled the glass against his chest. “I want this.”

“Ha. Thought you might.”

John risked a doubtful half-grin, and his voice rose to its normal volume. “Er, are you _sure_ this is what you thought you were signing up for – an evening watching John Watson, confirmed bachelor, drown his sorrows in your best whisky?“

“Nope,” Lestrade said, and John’s grin faltered before his brain decoded: _he’s joking, idiot_. “I _thought_ I was signing up for a night of getting pissed in front of Pierce Brosnan’s finest hour, so sit back, drink up, and zip it.”

Lestrade hit Play again, and relaxed back into the sofa, his own glass resting on his thigh. John tried to mirror him; he felt like it would be helpful right now if he could master even a fraction of the masculine ease Lestrade was projecting.

His train of thought broke off: odd choice of word, masculine. He meant it physically, and he didn't normally think like that. In the army, his brain had become inured to the constant parade of pure muscle, and then he'd taken up with Sherlock and forgotten anyone else existed.

Cushioned by ethanol, the sound of Sherlock's name in his head didn't elicit more than a deep dull ache. _Incredible. Might actually sleep tonight after all._

He tried to turn his attention to the film; half an hour later, he found to his amazement that he'd been drawn in. He was even groaning a little, at the terrible puns, and enjoying the soft sound of Lestrade laughing at him.

He half-expected to be floored with guilt at the realization that he wasn’t, say, falling utterly to pieces – but it didn't materialise. Instead he felt sort of light and floaty, softened at the edges.

 _Drunk_ , his mind helpfully supplied. _Well, so be it._

He yawned – another surprise – and shifted in his seat, slouching down the sofa. He wound up closer to Lestrade; shoulder to shoulder, knee against knee. It was comfortable, and Lestrade didn't react, so John didn't bother moving away.

The film bounded on, reassuring in its familiarity: space-based nuclear weapon systems and sauna-based assassination attempts. The whisky slipped down, gently now, just a warming taste every now and then.

Around the time Bond started bulldozing half of St Petersburg with his stolen tank, Lestrade finished his own glass. He cracked open the bottle, poured himself a generous measure, and glanced over.

"Top up?"

"Sure," John said. "If you don't mind."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and held out the bottle. "If it's doing the trick," he said. There was the mildest of questions in his voice, and it made John's throat catch.

"Yes," John said, looking at the floor. "It is."

"Right then." Lestrade's voice was brisk again. He matched John's glass to his own, then leaned forwards to replace the bottle on the table.

John caught himself shifting closer, so that Lestrade jostled him slightly as he sat back down. _Just for the dumb animal comfort of having another human being close by_ —it was unconvincing, even in the privacy of his own head, but Lestrade still didn't react so maybe John was the only one who felt their legs touching was a distraction.

Onscreen, Bond was falling into bed with the attractive Russian missile guidance programmer. As the cameras lingered, John developed a strange sense of embarrassment, like watching a nature documentary with a relative when it suddenly zooms in on some animals shagging. There was no reason for it—except that he was sort of leaning on Lestrade, and now felt very aware of all the places that they were touching. He felt like the tips of his ears were going red, and cleared his throat twice, then realised that had been a stupid thing to do, because now Lestrade was giving him a curious look.

“You all right?”

“F-fine,” John said, and great, stammering, just what he needed. “Frog in the throat.”

Lestrade looked at the TV, then smirked at John. “Oh right.”

John concentrated on taking a slow sip, trying to shrug it off, and then made the mistake of looking back at the TV, where the camera was panning lovingly up Bond’s well-furred torso. The sip went down the wrong way. John coughed into his fist, setting his glass hurriedly aside, and then glared at Lestrade, who was outright laughing at him.

“Shut up.”

“Need a pat on the back?”

“No!”

“I’m surprised, is all,” Lestrade teased, as soon as John got himself back under control. “I wouldn’t have picked her for your type.”

He was already settling back to watch the film, and John could have just left it, but— _fuck it._ “No,” he said.

There was a pause, as if Lestrade hadn’t heard him.

“He is, though,” John added, after a few seconds. Fuck. It.

That, Lestrade definitely heard; he cocked an eyebrow at John, as if to say: _Really? **This** is the right time to come out, right this minute?_

“You know,” John said, feeling reckless now, and dear God it felt good to _feel_ something, it really fucking did. “Handsome, impulsive smart-alec. Annoys the police.”

"Got it,” Lestrade said. He met John's eye. “So you two _were_...?"

Just like that, John crashed back down to earth. "No," he said. He pressed his lips together. "No, um. That wasn't what it was like."

Lestrade looked genuinely surprised. "Really?"

"Really," John said. Not the whole truth, though, was it? And at this point, Lestrade did deserve the whole truth. "I... Thought it might be going that way. In the beginning. But... it didn't."

"Oh," Lestrade said. The understanding in his voice made John wince and shrug. "Wish I'd known."

"I mean, it's not as if he—it's irrelevant now, anyway. But he. It was never an issue."

"Sorry," Lestrade said quietly. "I'm not trying to get you talking about it."

John recruited every last iota of keeping-it-together. “No, I know – you’re trying to watch the damn film!”

“What’s left of it,” Lestrade retorted. “Honestly, you don’t half prattle on.”

John knew it was a joke, was grateful for it, but still. “I could go—?”

Lestrade hit Pause again and rounded on him with an exasperated expression. “Watson,” he said, somehow warm and serious at the same time. “Seriously. Stay here tonight, it’s a sofa-bed. Watch stupid films with me and drink yourself into a stupor. It’s the least I can do – Christ, it’s the only thing I can do.”

A reckless thought – _You could take me to bed_ – flashed through John’s mind, and for a moment he pictured saying it. Lestrade’s outrage: it would almost be worth it. John hid his grin in his glass, shifted to get more comfortable, and waved at the telly. “Go on, then.”

As Bond’s Cessna was shot down in the Cuban jungle, John realized he felt almost relaxed. It had a lot to do with the booze, obviously. That was safely in his system by now. And the insomnia: after a certain point, even the drama of grief could feel like too much effort.

But it also had a lot to do with how Lestrade was being with him: warm, and firm. Complicit in maintaining John’s uneven façade. And attractive; how had he never noticed how nice his smile was before? Especially when it was mocking. When Lestrade teased him, he felt… good.

 _Wish I’d known_ , Lestrade had said, and John hadn’t thought about it at the time, but maybe—

“What?” Lestrade said, and John realized he was looking at him with his head tilted.

“Nothing,” John said. “Well, except – thank you.”

“Nothing to thank.”

“Actually, I think you'll find there really is,” John said, and a wave of impulsiveness swept over him. He leaned forwards, brushed their lips together.

“ _Oh_ ,” Lestrade said, going very still. “You’re welcome.”

John kissed him again, bringing one hand up to cup his jaw. Lestrade’s mouth felt soft; he was letting John kiss him, but not kissing back. John made a tiny plaintive noise and nipped his lower lip with his teeth, and heard Lestrade take a sharply indrawn breath.

John brushed the bite with the tip of his tongue, and rubbed his thumb against the hinge of Lestrade’s jaw; “Hey,” Lestrade said, against his mouth. “You—“

John hummed, interrupting, and repeated the thing with his tongue. This time, Lestrade’s indrawn breath was more unsteady.

“But,” Lestrade started again, and John pressed a firmer kiss against his mouth, slid one hand around the back of Lestrade’s neck and the other onto his thigh. He didn’t know what he wanted, but some reciprocation would be a start, and if he had to roll out every trick in the book—

Lestrade growled and kissed him back, and it was John’s turn with the shaky breathing. Christ, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted this. He spread his fingers in Lestrade’s hair and leaned in, opening his mouth, loving the whisky-bright taste of Lestrade’s tongue.

It was nothing more than kissing but he felt like his body was waking up after a long cold winter: his muscles warming, his blood pumping, his cock beginning to lift. He groaned and pushed closer, beginning to imagine having sex. God, yes, sex, he hadn't thought about—not since—

“This isn’t a good idea,” Lestrade said, his hands coming up to frame John's face, gentle but trying to press him back.

“Feels good though,” John said, pushing his hands aside, his voice as persuasive as he could manage.

Lestrade was panting. “Yeah—yeah, it does."

“Let’s go to bed,” John whispered.

Lestrade made a low noise, and jerked back. “Shit,” he said, under his breath. “Shit. No. Sorry.”

John leaned after him, catching the front of his soft jersey in both hands. “What?” he asked, pulling gently, trying to steer them back together.

Lestrade jerked back again, closing his hands over John’s. “No,” he said, “no, stop it, we can’t – this, we can’t do this.”

“We can,” John said, sliding his hands down Lestrade’s chest, spreading them on his thighs. He squeezed, watching Lestrade grit his teeth, feeling his own cock throb. “Come on, please, let’s go to bed, I want you to fuck me.”

“That’s—we’re not.”

“Please,” John said again, “stop saying that, why not? I just want to feel—I want it so much.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, his voice hoarse, “and believe me, you’re making it pretty damn appealing,” and then he grabbed John’s wrists and lifted them between them, leveled his forehead against John’s. “But this is the wrong night, okay? Any previous night, yes, fuck yes with bells on. Some time in the future – maybe. But tonight, Jesus.” He let go and slumped back against the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’d never fucking look at me again.”

“I would,” John said, sliding his hand back up Lestrade’s thigh.

“You wouldn’t, and you’d be right not to.”

“Pl—“

“No,” Lestrade growled, sitting up and stabbing a finger at him. “I’m not a scumbag, and I’m not fucking you!”

The words rang out loud and absurd.

“Oh,” John said, after a moment, and started laughing.

Lestrade’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed into a glare, which spurred John on even more. He could see the irritation flashing across Lestrade’s face and it was – normal. Brilliant. Lestrade’s glare increased. “Hey, fuck you.”

“Won’t,” John managed, through giggling. “Not allowed!”

That made Lestrade snort, and he turned away. When he turned back, he was holding the Talisker bottle again. “Here,” he said, and even in this state, John recognized a peace offering when he heard one. “Top you up?”

Onscreen, the credits began to roll.

John nodded, wiping his eyes, and waited until Lestrade was pouring before he murmured, “So there is one way I’m allowed to get fucked.”

Lestrade shot him a dark look, and the glass wound up rather fuller than he’d probably intended. He took in John’s unrepentant grin, and his eyes turned fond. “Scumbag,” he said.

“Been called a lot worse,” John informed him, and sidled nearer again. “Fine, all right. If that’s off the menu, how about another Bond?”

Lestrade set up the next film and sat down next to him again. John found himself cozying in close, bold now where he’d agonized over scant inches before; Lestrade gave him several disbelieving looks, but didn’t protest out loud.

Half way through _Tomorrow Never Dies_ , with Lestrade’s arm curled warm and heavy around him, John’s phone buzzed.

He looked at it, and the world closed down to a long tunnel with a light at the end: a bright, square LCD with a message from a number he didn’t recognize.

 _I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner. –SH._

The phone buzzed in his hand again, and he dropped it. “Fuck,” he croaked. “Fuck.” He scrambled down onto the floor to find it, the room reeling, and caught it up again.

“What?” Lestrade was demanding, a distant noise.

The new message said: _(Tomorrow.) – SH_

John’s voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “It says he’s not dead. He—might not be dead. He—“

“Let me see,” Lestrade said, strong-arming him back onto the sofa and thumbing through the messages with his jaw set.

“He…” John was still saying. “Fuck! If he’s not dead, I’m going to fucking _kill him_.”

Lestrade had his own phone pressed to his ear. “Dalton,” he barked, after a couple of seconds, “I’ve sent you a number, I need you to trace it. Yes. I know it’s—just do it. Now. I— _I don’t give a shit what Miller says_ , I need you to do this for me right away, and that’s a—thank you.”

John stared at his hands. The world seemed to be flashing around him. At the bottom of the yawning chasm of dread that this was a trick, a wind-up, some sick bastard’s idea of a joke – there was a tiny grain of hope that it was _his_ sick bastard.

 _Let’s have dinner_ ; no one else knew about that, did they? That wasn’t something people said, no one except Irene, and she was a lot of things but not downright cruel, was she? Could _anyone_ be this cruel?

 _SH_. Please God, let it be SH.

“Yeah,” Lestrade was saying. “Yes. Thank you – got it. I owe you one.”

John lifted his head, peering at what Lestrade was writing. A post code. SE26.

“Warehouses,” Lestrade said, and John started to grin. It felt foreign on his face. “They’re pretty far away, South-East London, a whole yard of them, but – that’s where the phone is, whoever’s got it.”

John jumped to his feet. “Great! Warehouses in SE26 – of course! Where else would he be? Where’re your car keys? Come on!”

Lestrade’s face was taut with something that John could not stand to look at. “We—I can’t drive like this,” Lestrade said softly. “I’m over the limit.”

“Then I will.”

“No.”

John’s head snapped up. “Then call a cab, or start seconding panda cars, or hire a fucking pink limo for all I care—“

Lestrade grabbed his hands. “John.”

John’s voice broke. “Just—take me to that address,” he said. “Please.”

Lestrade looked him in the eye and said, voice low and fierce, “It might not be him.”

“I know,” John said. “I—I know.”

.

* * *

.

“Cab’ll be here in five,” Lestrade said, five minutes later. “Drink this.”

Coffee. Sweet, milky, strong. “I don’t take sugar,” John said, after the first mouthful, and abruptly his eyes were stinging.

“Well tonight you do,” Lestrade said, and watched him drink it. “There you go. Not so bad.”

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Me too. C’mon, car’s downstairs.”

It was pelting down with rain; they got wet even in the short jog to the curb.

The black cab peeled off into the darkness, water lashing the windscreen. John stared at the drops hitting his window, streaming horizontally, tiny trails of prisms glinting against blackness and thought: _It might not be him._

.

* * *

.

When they pulled up, however, it did look quite a lot like the sort of place Sherlock might go. There was a factory gate, rusted ajar. Behind it, warehouses towered, huge slabs of brickwork in the falling rain, their edges picked out in a murky yellow of far-spaced lampposts. There was an indistinct courtyard in the middle, like the black gap of a missing tooth.

“End of the road,” the cabbie said. “Twenty-seven fifty.”

“Keep the change,” Lestrade said, handing over three tens. John watched blankly. He didn’t even know if he had any cash on him.

“How much to hang around for a bit?” Lestrade asked, as John opened the door on his side.

The cabbie looked doubtfully at the deserted street. “How long are you going to be?”

“Look, here’s another thirty,” Lestrade said, “just – keep the meter running. If we’re not back by the time it’s used up, then go, but—“ and John didn’t hear the rest, because he was standing in the downpour, squinting against the rain, trying to make out the gate, and was that a figure, fuck, was it?

No.

“Come on,” John said, as Lestrade got out the other side and slammed the car door. John wiped his face with his hand, heading for the gate at a run. Behind it, the cluster of buildings stretched around further than he could see; the rain was distorting what light there was into a yellow haze, next to useless.

“Couldn’t narrow it down any further than this yard,” Lestrade said, shoving at the gate; it screeched forwards, shuddering, until John could slide through the gap. “Sorry.”

John fumbled in his coat pocket for his keys, flicking on the pen torch he used for eye exams. Its thin white beam illuminated lances of silver rain, nothing more.

“Fuck,” he muttered, turning it off again. He glared, enraged with helplessness: this could be any old buildings, the fix on the phone might be wrong, there must be a million sites like this, and why would he be here, _why_? “I don’t know where to start, there must be a dozen warehouses at least. It’s hopeless,” he said, his voice rising.

Lestrade caught his arm, spun him to the left. “Maybe start with the one that’s on fire.”

John whipped around, swiping rain off his face, heart in his throat; as he looked in the direction Lestrade was pointing him, the faint orange glow coming from one of the more distant buildings blossomed into a full-on warehouse fire.

It suddenly looked a lot more like the sort of place Sherlock might be.

He swallowed, still trying not to get his hopes up – and then he saw a lanky figure in a flowing greatcoat charge out of the burning building and head off across the courtyard away from him.

“Fuck,” John bit off, jerking away from Lestrade and breaking into a sprint. Rain lashed his face, half-blinding him, and his shoes slipped on the water-slick ground, but he gritted his teeth and ran faster, keeping his eyes on his quarry as best he could, cutting him off and then putting on a burst of speed and ploughing into him at last.

He got two handfuls of the coat, fuck, _the coat_ – not the same coat but an eerily similar one, and what the fuck had he been doing, _shopping_? – and shoved the figure against the wall.

“Ow,” the figure protested, and even before John had managed to drag him into one of the murky patches of yellow light, he could hear himself gasping, “Sherlock. Fuck. Sherlock. _Sherlock_.”

“John,” Sherlock said, and John groaned, deep in his throat.

“I—fuck,” he said, pulling back to stare at him without releasing his grip, “I don’t know whether to beat you to a pulp or kiss you senseless.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Er—neither?”

“Fuck,” John said, realising he was shaking, and then he was being hauled against Sherlock’s body, those lanky arms closing around him and squeezing hard. He was wonderfully hot to the touch.

“Fuck,” John mumbled again, burying his face against Sherlock’s neck and breathing in the warm damp smell of him. He could feel Sherlock’s stubble and the itch of this stupid new coat collar; he crowded closer, eyes tightly shut. He could feel Sherlock’s carotid pulse, pounding away under his skin, going at about 140; reasonable under the circumstances. John held on and took great ragged breaths, letting Sherlock take his weight.

“Inspector,” he heard Sherlock say, a minute or so later. He felt the jolt as Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Good,” Lestrade said roughly. “Good.”

“I note you’ve been getting John drunk on single malt from the Isle of Skye,” Sherlock said. John felt Sherlock’s throat move as he swallowed. “Thank you.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Seemed like the thing to do.”

Although they were against a wall, it provided little shelter; water was seeping down the back of John’s neck. He realized at the same moment that Sherlock was stroking his back, long slow movements, and resolved not to move any time soon.

“So,” Lestrade said, voice raised against the rain, “ah, is it worth me asking what the arson was in aid of?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and John pressed closer to feel the buzz of his larynx. “That was just a drugs lab. Mephedrone or _Miaow miaow_ , I believe they were cooking. I took photographs of everyone involved, ought to be enough for even Anderson to convict. They’re on my phone – you can have them in two days.”

Something snapped in John’s brain, and he drew slowly back. “Why,” he started, staring up at him, that beautiful implacable face, “were you” – his voice cracking but getting louder, harsher – “busting a drugs ring in SE26 for five days when _I have been at your fucking funeral_?” He had both hands clamped around Sherlock’s shoulders and was shaking him, hard, bloodless fingers digging into wet wool. “It’s been—“

“A hundred and thirteen hours, I know,” Sherlock said, putting his face close to John’s. “ _I know_. I had to hide. You couldn’t know. Those assassins around our flat, the ones that were left, they don’t know Moriarty’s code’s a hoax. And there’re others, gunmen you never knew about—I’ve got my homeless network watching. Most of them have gone already, the last one’s flying out tomorrow.”

John stared at him, breath coming fast and hard.

“I—I _wanted to_ , John, you have to believe me,” Sherlock said. “But they would have shot me on sight – not to kill, you understand, but to maim, interrogate. And if they thought you didn’t think I was dead, they’d shoot you as well, or—worse.”

“If they had any idea Sherlock was still alive,” Lestrade said softly, “or if they thought you knew where he was…” He stopped. Then he cleared his throat, started louder again. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m soaked to the skin and this place will be crawling with police once that fire gets reported. Which it’s about to be,” he added pointedly. “So let’s get back to the cab and get out of here.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “I’ve got a bed here. I’m not joking: I can’t go back to Baker Street, it’s not worth it.”

Staring at the deathly-pale stubbornness of Sherlock’s face, framed in dripping wet curls, John had a sudden premonition that this was all a whisky dream and clutched him closer again.

Lestrade gave a sigh that was half laughter. “Then it looks like I’m hosting a bloody sleepover, doesn’t it? C’mon, before we all catch pneumonia and leave my poor crew puzzling over an apparent triple homicide with no murder weapon or motive…”

“That’s not how pneumonia works,” John mumbled, into Sherlock’s coat, and Sherlock made an annoyed noise and shook him off.

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “If we must. Let’s go.”

The cabbie raised his eyebrows as they approached, but let them in without too much loud grumbling about his upholstery.

John folded himself into the middle back seat, feeling another spurt of relief as the doors clunked closed with Sherlock, soggy and cramped and alive, fucking _alive_ , in the seat next to him.

Lestrade leaned forwards to give the driver his address again.

“Shit,” John said, remembering. “I must owe you about ninety quid.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock was wiping water off the screen of his new iPhone. _Tosser_ , John thought, smiling.

“He can pay you back,” Sherlock said archly, “by taking you to dinner at Boisdale’s. I presume that’s still your favourite restaurant – the Belgravia branch, obviously.”

“Er,” Lestrade said. “Yes.”

“Right, so – twenty-eight day old sirloins on the bone, with chips, followed by white chocolate cheesecake for you; John normally doesn’t like pudding – but he would be tempted by the cheeseboard – then two glasses of Glenfiddich to finish, that’s just short of ninety quid, isn’t it? Although I haven’t left a tip or accounted for inflation. What?” he demanded, as John gaped at him. “Oh, come on. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”

John closed his mouth. Then he huffed a laugh, and elbowed him in the ribs. “No, course not,” he said, over Sherlock’s indignant noise. “It’s good to have you back. I think.”

On his other side, he put his hand down on the seat between them. After a moment, Lestrade’s hand slid onto his.

John rested his head on Sherlock’s sodden shoulder and entwined his fingers with Lestrade’s, closing his eyes as they drove away into the night.

He felt like he might doze off at any minute.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to puppethorse for beta. All comments loved.


End file.
